


For Blood and Empire

by littlerhymes, SQ (proteinscollide)



Category: Britney Spears (Musician), Hip Hop RPF, Pink (Musician), Pop Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, Gladiators, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-28
Updated: 2009-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beyonce, Britney, Pink, and Enrique Iglesias, to the death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Blood and Empire

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6DSifkM0Z4).
> 
> Thank you to colouredmango for beta-reading!

BEYONCE

Beyonce hears the music first - the blare of trumpets and beating of drums. "Listen," she says intently, stepping away from Pink and laying down her trident on the sand. "Do you hear it?"

As the wedding procession wends its way through the city, more noises spill inside the compound. There is screaming and clapping, stamping and cheering, loud as any Coliseum crowd - but then they are, of course, one and the same. The citizens of Rome are fiercely celebratory.

"So it's happened," Pink says flatly. "Rome has a new empress."

One after another, the gladiators in the training yard halt in their tracks and turn their faces upwards. Beyond the high walls they can see banners marching against the blue sky. A few white petals drift in on the wind and into the yard.

Pink moves closer. "So, tell us, princess." Beyonce doesn't turn but she can almost hear Pink's mouth twisting. "Was it like this, where you came from? Is this how your kings and queens married?"

"I am no princess," she replies absently. "But no. Not like this." Beyonce stoops for her weapon. She turns back towards the other girl, hefting the trident in her hand.

"Tell me, then." Pink moves into a fighting stance though her wrist stays loose, fingers only casually gripping the handle of the club. "Paint me a picture, princess."

That word again. Beyonce disguises the sting with a feint of the trident, a half-hearted stab that Pink easily sidesteps. "It was rich," Beyonce says at last as they warily circle one another, "and bloody."

She darts forward once more and Pink flinches back. Almost a hit. After that and until the end of training they speak only of weapons, strategies, the arena.

Beyonce is glad that Pink presses no further. She's not sure she _could_ tell it, even if she wanted to, this story of the last days that she's never spoken out loud.

Rome has wealth and blood in plenty, but as for the rest of it - Beyonce doesn't know enough Latin to give sufficient voice to what she's seen. She hasn't yet learned the words to describe the long lines of the camel caravans bearing their tribute, the wooden chests spilling over with a dowry of lapis lazuli, tanned gazelle hide, ivory tusks, beads of soft rich gold.

She could say _we danced for a day and a night_ and though it would be true the words are still entirely too small. Would Pink understand that it had been no bawdy wine-drunk revel but an occasion both sacred and joyful?

In the highest of the temples, Beyonce herself had led the first rites, dancing the oldest of patterns with Kelly and Michelle. Mindful of the older priestesses' watchful eyes, their movements were at first slow and precise. As they grew surer their steps became faster, then faster still, the sweet heady incense working like a drug on their limbs and minds, their voices raised now in song over the beat of drums. And the women that watched, the bride that waited, even Kelly and Michelle beside her, all these faded away until Beyonce performed for the gods alone.

When the sunset bells rang out, Beyonce startled like a wakened dreamer, aware again of her aching body and lungs that gasped for breath, of Kelly's arms clasped around her. It's done, Kelly whispered to her, it's done, smoothing back the sweat-damp hair from Beyonce's forehead.

Their part ended then and it was Solange's turn to dance. Beyonce can recall now, with only the slightest tightening of her throat, the sight of her beautiful sister laughing on the eve of her wedding day, unaware of what was to come.

There was a time when the memory could have knocked her down where she stood. But she is stronger now.

*

Before the afternoon meal, Pink lays her hand on Beyonce's arm and tilts her head towards the gate. Beyonce nods and casually they peel away from the gladiators heading to the mess hall. With luck they won't be missed.

There's only a few minutes to spare. They duck into a kitchen storeroom smelling of preserves and spices to hurriedly don robes they've stolen from the domestics. They cover up their scarred arms, strap sheathed knifes to their thighs, and complete the disguise by meekly lowering their heads and propping baskets on their hips, as though headed to the market.

As they leave the house there's a sudden commotion at the gates - a slave from the stables has 'accidentally' lost his grip on a restless stallion. Amidst all the commotion, the guards barely glance at their exit.

The others will be waiting at an abandoned stable in the south of the city. Pink arranges the meetings with a spymaster's care. The time and place are decided on the day, sometimes only scant hours in advance, with the word spread in veiled signals to only the trustworthy and proven. They gather in twos and threes - perhaps with a veteran of the gladiator schools, a blacksmith from the lower city, the royal family's seamstress.

Their ranks are growing all the time, for Pink is a deft recruiter and her judgement, like her tongue, is sharp. But at these meetings, Beyonce is the one who speaks. Though at other times the Latin can stick in her mouth, somehow the words tumble out easily when she's looking into the faces of her fellow slaves. The words take her over, as the dance once did, and when she grasps their hands and says with fierce conviction _our time is coming_ she can see that they believe it. They believe _her_.

They're so very careful, every single time, but all it takes is one careless slip and on this occasion the gods are not on their side.

Too late, Beyonce hears their lookout's warning whistle. She breaks off mid-speech and all of them turn to run, with Beyonce at the tail of the pack. With a burst of relief she sees Pink scale a wall and get away, sees too that the other slaves are disappearing from sight.

Then a rough hand grasps her arm from behind and she's brought suddenly to a halt. Grimly, Beyonce lashes out with her elbow. She feels it connect with bone, and hearing the man's muffled curse feels a little spark of satisfaction.

But it's only a token resistance and before she can reach for her knife the guards have her surrounded. Her consolation, if she can call it that, is that she is valuable goods and so they beat her only lightly, taking care to leave her face and limbs unmarked. She knows the real punishment will come later, when they put her in the hole.

*

Night and day are the same in the hole. The stone floor is harsh against her skin and she shivers, hugging her arms to herself against the damp and cold. She is hungry and sore and tired but she resists sleep for as long as she can.

When it finally comes she dreams - the same old dream of the last night, her sister's wedding night.

She dreams of rising from the bed she shared with Kelly and Michelle, padding naked to the window to find the sky a rosy red that was not dawn, but the light of a hundred fires. _Wake up_ , she said, _wake up!_ By the time she shook them awake, the battering ram was already at the palace gates and the invaders had breached the temple walls.

Together they tried to flee, running through narrowing corridors and the crush of a frightened crowd, past the high priest clutching at the arrows sprouting from his chest and a guard stumbling armless. She saw crimson splashes on white stone and black smoke billowing; saw the invaders at their slaughter, and smelt the rich thick stink of blood. They ran but it was useless. It was all over within the day.

A spear took Kelly, an arrow bloomed in Michelle's throat, yet somehow Beyonce lived - lived, to be placed in shackles and taken north.

The journey to Rome was long and seemed longer in the close darkness of the slave wagon. Here the priestess was no different from the shepherd girl, the cook's boy, the archer. If nothing else Beyonce understood her place: the slave wagon was the last, far behind the wagons piled high with her sister's plundered wedding gifts and looted temple gold, behind even the lion cages and the herds of cattle.

The journey was a forgetting time, a losing time. Those she loved were gone beyond all hope; she was denied the rites of worship and her place in the temple above the city; and when the soldiers were within earshot, she was even barred her native speech.

Yet she lived, and lived to remember the three words that the soldiers had repeated, over and over in their battle cries: _Emperor_ , and _Enrique_ , and _Rome_.

At first it was only the sounds she knew. Later, she learnt their meanings. With that knowledge came hatred. She's held fast to that feeling since then, this one desire.

*

After a day and a night and a day, they take Beyonce out of the hole.

She's weak after her confinement but they only give her the time it takes to change her soiled clothing and eat a bite of food before she's ordered back into training. So she lingers in the armory, stealing a moment of rest before she has to go out and spar.

It's there Pink finds her. She stands beside Beyonce, and they don't look at one another as they sort through the array of spears and mutter in low voices.

"You got away?" Beyonce says.

Pink lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. "I was back before they noticed I was gone." She darts a quick glance at Beyonce. "You're alright?"

She shrugs.

"Well, you'd better be," Pink murmurs, finally settling on a spear and pulling it out of the rack. "There's another meeting tomorrow."

Beyonce watches Pink striding away, straight-backed and without a shadow of a doubt. Pink's right. There's no time to waste.

After a moment she follows, willing herself into the same frame of mind, trying to walk as though she's unstoppable. By the time she hits the training yard, hefting her weapon in her hand, she no longer needs to try.

*

At night Beyonce sleeps in a featureless cell shared with five others, lying on a narrow pallet laid down over hard stone. After the long darkness of her confinement, she has even less desire to sleep than usual and she wakes early, to watch the sky slowly lighten through the barred window.

Pink noticed her insomnia early and still likes to tell her, often and loudly, that sleep's much easier after a tumble between the sheets. Pink takes her own advice to heart and is rarely alone. It's clear she's not the only one, for the sleeping quarters echo. Even in these miserable places there is a little comfort to be had.

She'd offered as much soon after Beyonce arrived, sizing her up after training with a bold glance, a roll of her hips. Beyonce's Latin was then still rudimentary, scraps and phrases picked up from slavers and other slaves, but there was no mistaking Pink's hand on her wrist nor the wicked curl of her mouth. She let Pink pull her into an alcove and opened her mouth to the kiss, but felt nothing.

Pink pulled back after a moment. _No?_

 _No._ Beyonce shook her head. _But you're not._ You're not the one I want, she wanted to say, not with you. The taste of Pink, her scent, the grip of her fingers, only reminded Beyonce of what was lost and would never come again.

 _So it's like that, is it?_ It wasn't a question or a threat. Pink tilted her head to the side, smiling, sly. _I can help with that, maybe,_ she said, voice dropping, _help you forget. Same as you can help me._

 _Forgetting's not what I want._

The words came out harshly but Pink did not recoil from her sudden ferocity. _Oh?_ The gleam in her eyes grew darker, sharper. She moved closer. _Then what do you want?_

A muffled sob interrupts Beyonce's recollection. She turns her head and sees the new girl, the yellow-haired one from the north, wiping away tears with a blanket corner.

It would be easy for Beyonce to close her eyes and pretend to be sleeping, easier and maybe kinder too. Instead she rolls onto her side and props herself up on her elbow.

The girl sees the movement and her eyes widen, her body shrinks back. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake-"

"I wasn't sleeping."

"Oh." She wipes away the last tears and sits up, the early light from the barred window casting faint stripes across her face. "I couldn't sleep either. I'm not - this isn't what I'm - I've never." The girl falls silent and looks downward at the new bruises on her pale hands.

Useless to pity someone she might one day have to kill, or be killed by, so Beyonce keeps her voice cool. "You'll get used to it. So did I. So did we all." She flicks her eyes towards the other occupants of the room. "Soon you'll be sleeping as soundly as the rest. Or you'll be dead."

The girl flinches at the last word but instead of falling silent as Beyonce had expected, she flicks the question back. "Then why are you awake?"

Beyonce shrugs and lies down again, pillowing her head against her arm. "I'll rest when I have what I want. What I need."

"Freedom, you mean?" Beyonce makes a small scornful sound and the girl shifts impatiently. "Then what?"

The answer is the same she gave to Pink, all those months ago. "The Emperor," Beyonce says softly. His name in her prayers all these sleepless nights, his face, imagining him cut open and eyes staring. "The Emperor. I want him dead."

"So do I," the girl replies unexpectedly, and it's the urgency with which she says it that makes Beyonce take notice. "More than you can know."

Slowly Beyonce sits up again. She gives the girl a proper look this time, as she would assess a weapon placed into her hand, and she remembers suddenly the rumours about the Emperor's new bride from the north, and the bride's disgraced cousin.

The girl matches her stare for stare and for that Beyonce asks, "What is your name?"

Her voice quavers but her chin comes up proudly, shoulders straight. In that moment the girl looks like royalty, and her next word only confirms it. "Britney."

"Britney. I am Beyonce." She holds out her hand and after a moment Britney clasps it. The girl's palm is soft and uncallused but her grip is firm. Perhaps they found have another ally.

Outside, the morning bells begin to peal.

BRITNEY

Out in the courtyard, the sun is rising, casting an orange tint over the sandy ground. Early summer, early morning, and behind the four walls the sounds of the marketplace are unmistakable - raucous cries of sellers and buyers, of crowds trickling through, growing in number and noise.

Britney watches the empty courtyard, the encroaching sun, and listens to the noise. She remains in the shadow of the stone pillars, cool grains of sand under her roughened fingers. Once they were delicate as the rest of her, from never being worked. Yesterday, a blister broke and spilled yellow, red, as she stood stunned by the stinging pain. Pink's staff had landed true and hard across her palms. She almost conceded the bout then, save the older girl giving her a sharp glance, a challenge and reminder. They were not truly fighting each other, and this was not the time to be lax and cry for small hurts. She paid for the strength then with a sleepless night, gritted teeth against the pain; tending the open sores the best she could by pressing them against the pale skin high on her thighs, the only softness left of her.

The heat shimmered, a hazy light ready to descend upon the city, another daily hardship for her to bear. In the depths of the cells, it is the chill that comforts her, reminds Britney of the heavy snows at home. She steals moments in quiet corners, and closes her eyes until all around her is the animal tang of newly pelted furs, mingling with roasting meat in the great hall.

There is none of that here, and nothing left of the ice princess she once was. Now there are freckles scattered across her back, pale to gold under the harsh sun, and though the gold strands around her face have lightened, she feels it brittle and hard against her skin.

"What are you looking for, blondie?"

The lone guard on duty leers at her, moving into her space; the foul smell of leathered sweat and ale drifts from his skin. He leans into the bars between them with a hard smile.

"I hope you're not thinking about escape. I hear the Emperor's well looking forward to watching your pretty body torn from limb to limb."

Britney ignores his taunting, knowing it only provokes him to say more, hoping he will. She focuses beyond him, keeps her breathing even, waiting - yet she still jumps, startled, when he bangs one fist hard against the metal bars.

"Too good to listen to me, eh? But in a week's time, you'll be nothing but food for the lions, bitch."

He spits brown muck through the gap, at her feet, and sneers as he marches away. Britney no longer trembles from contact with such brute men, does not recoil in disgust.

Seven moons since she was doomed to die, and now she knows there is only one more week to endure. The timing could not be better for all their planning, and all their training.

She takes one last look at the courtyard, at freedom, before she slips quietly into the darkness, down corridors to rejoin her fellow gladiators. She has good news: one week.

*

Her father, and with him a small retinue, had made the arduous journey to Rome, across the sullen tundras, over mountains and grassy plains, at the Emperor's request He was gone for no longer than two moons, but he returned greyer and aged, as if the trip had caused him great worry.

Britney had been at the entrance of the castle as they party rode through, and she thought she caught a glimpse of a broken man. Upon seeing her though, the tight frown on his face had loosened into a smile. And brother Brian had leapt from his horse to give her a fierce hug, the musk of weeks of travel tickling her nose.

Instead of the expected greeting though, Brian only murmured, "You would do anything for us, for our land, darling Brit, wouldn't you?"over and over. "You would, I know it."

Odd and intimate, desperate too, and Britney reacted instinctively, with a rush of familial love.

"Of course, darling, anything,"she answered in a hushed voice, hoping to calm him.

She hadn't known what she was agreeing to, that she was sealing her fate, with murmured comfort she thought held no meaning.

But that night, at the celebration feast in the great hall for the king's safe return, they announced it to all: the kingdom's eldest daughter for the continued protection of, and from, Rome and her mighty force. Britney let her face freeze in disinterested composure as loud toasts were made to her, as if it truly honoured Britney to be sold to the tyrant who had threatened to crush them since he had ascended to power.

Tired from the festivities that had begun early in the day, Jamie Lynn rested her head in Britney's lap even as dinner began in earnest. Britney stroked her little sister's hair with trembling fingers, glad for the touch, the distraction.

All around her, arrangements were already being made for the retinue that would speed her to Rome, preparations fit for a future Empress. Her mother, head bowed, was listening to her father at the head of the table. Britney knew that she should behave the same way, be the dutiful daughter that would not question such sacrifice. Still, inside she could feel her heart protesting, a frantic shrill beat.

To her left, her mother drank deeply from her chalice, fingers knotted nervously in the material of her fine dress. Britney longed suddenly to be a child once more, to be able to crawl into her mother's lap and be comforted by wordless hum, a loving voice, the belief that everything would be all fine if you wished it so. But she was to be a woman now, and her mother was bound to treat her as such.

Lynne leaned over and said not the commiserations Britney wanted, but more arrangements. "You shall not be alone when you go. Cousin Anna has kindly offered to be your companion, and I will be comforted that you will always have family beside you." She gave her daughter a tight smile.

Silently, Anna was standing behind her, arms reaching out in greeting. Britney rose mechanically into her cousin's embrace. Standing side by side, they were startling similar in beauty, with their Teutonic blonde hair and bright eyes. But those who served the two princesses knew the difference.

Separated only by the smallest gap in age, their fathers tied by blood, she was a constant, if chilly, presence in Britney's life. Britney felt her heart sink further at the loneliness she would have in this companionship. But a princess never forgets her manners.

"I thank you, Cousin Anna, for the kindness you show in accompanying me to Rome,"Britney said, with a small dip of her head.

There was a curl of a smile in the corner of Anna's mouth as she replied, "No, cousin, it will be my pleasure."

*

Before now, Britney has never handled anything sharper than a spindle. Never touched a weapon, before now, for she believed them the domain of men, with their heft and the potential for harm.

But the short sword is what she chooses eventually - it pulls heavily at her wrist the first time, and every time after that, but she leans to swing and to thrust until it feels almost natural, even as each move reminds her that it is not.

Each night for the first moon, Britney thinks she could learn to bear this new life, if not for the presence of Pink. The other girl is not much older than herself, but with the edge of many years and fights. She take it upon herself to push Britney harder, to taunt mercilessly, as if she has the measure of what Britney can bear. And for each blow and each harsh word Pink gives again and again, Britney turns at night to the stone walls that keep her trapped, and cries quiet sobs that invoke no pity at all from the other girls sleeping around her.

It is Pink who, in her brutal way, trains Britney to fight, with her skill at the various weapons.

"Move," is all the curt warning she gives, lightning seconds before the flat side of her broad sword follows.

Britney finds herself scampering across burning sand that creeps between her sore toes, stinging in the wounds she accrues daily.

The night after Beyonce speaks to Britney, she takes an interest in their training sessions.

After a particularly close strike that leaves Britney stunned, a welt blushing across her legs, Beyonce strides confidently between them. Pink's sword falls sharply to the ground with a dull thud - dropped or taken from her, Britney cannot see. Beyonce leads Pink aside, her grip firm on the other girl's elbow, and they have a brisk murmured conversation, their heads bent over the shadows in the sand. Britney knows they are talking about her from the flicker of Beyonce's eyes, and the tension in Pink's posture. When they part, it is with an annoyed air; Pink mutters a curt dismissal, and Beyonce shrugs coolly.

"Think on it," she says, suddenly loud, "She will be of use."

Beyonce walks away with long-legged grace, and Pink looks after her, a hint of lust on her face. It takes her a while to return to Britney - slow deliberate steps, a thoughtful look on her face.

Britney thinks maybe - maybe this time a reprieve - but then Pink ducks quickly to pick up her sword from the ground, and in a fluid movement she attacks Britney with all her strength. It is all Britney can do to block the blow with an unprepared swing that wrenches at her arm, and she suppresses the little scream that rises in her throat at the pain.

That afternoon, the fighting is more brutal than ever. Any trace of mercy is gone - every way Britney is cornered, every move is calculated to force Britney to fight back. Tears surface, but Britney never sobs; the salt trickles down her cheeks, but neither girl takes notice, grimly battling on. To keep herself focussed, Britney imagines first that it is Enrique across from her, with the same cruel sneer on his face as he sent her to this fate. It gives her a little motivation, strength flowing back into her tired arms.

Then Britney imagines Anna in Pink's place - eyes lined with kohl, the sly smile under long blonde hair - and the anger pulls on reserves of strength. She hits back, and Pink is surprised as Britney dives at her, sword at the ready. For once the aggressor, the attacker, not the attacked.

But it is not enough. Anger alone is not enough - not to stop Pink from overpowering her, not to get over the disappointment of her life.

In the dusk light, Britney falls to her knees in the cooling sand, her head bowed and body spent. Pink stands over her, the tip of her sword snug in the crook of Britney's neck.

She says, finally, in the softest tone of voice that Britney has ever heard from her, "Look at me."

Britney does not move. The sword's point slides away, and Pink kneels in the sand by her, angles her body close.

"Look at me," Pink says again, an order this time, and Britney cannot keep her head down at that voice.

"Learn this well, princess," the other girl says, half mocking, in all seriousness. "If revenge is what you want, then you will have it, we all will. But there's to be no weakness here, if we are to succeed."

She reaches out and places one hand flat against Britney's belly, under the loose material; a warm, stroking touch. "Keep it here, inside you and hidden, if you must. No softness, but where they cannot get at it."

Britney breathes around the touch, stomach roiling at the feel of rough fingers on soft skin, the intimacy she's so missed. She nods, shakily, and smiles up at the other girl. Pink has already turned away.

*

It is only two months after her arrival, two long hard months, that Britney is taken from the training yards and marched to a dimly lit chamber in one of the wings of the palace. Anna is waiting for her there, staring out the narrow slit in the wall. She turns as Britney is brought in, a triumphant smile on her face.

"Dearest cousin,"she purrs, "How well you look! The sun surely becomes you."

Anna sits down on a lounge and pats the seat beside her. Britney sits on the edge and contains the urge to reach out and smack the smile from Anna's face.

"Your family sends their regards,"Anna says, face barely containing her amusement. "They were overjoyed to hear of Enrique's marriage to northern royalty, sealing that treaty they sold you for. Enrique himself wrote them a missive letting them know he's very very happy with his beautiful bride. Too bad they'll never know the truth. My dearest husband doesn't plan on sending for your father ever again."

"You're nothing but his whore,"Britney spits at her cousin, the truth giving her words the ultimate satisfaction. "You and whatever lies you told him to secure your place in his bed, at least for a little while. He will soon find some other girl to take your place. Then you will know what your plans have bought you."

"You can call me names, but I will not be the one facing a lion's hunger," Anna says calmly. "I shall enjoy watching you die, dear cousin."

Her words are clipped and curled by the accent still in her voice, a dismissive farewell. A little wave beckons the guard forward, a foul-smelling man, who cringes before Anna like she is the rightful queen, shining the way she does in her finery ( _my clothes!_ Britney registers fiercely, _my place!_ ).

Britney watches the door shut, the tip of the key in the lock, the sounds of her former life walking away with genteel steps and a wicked heart. Anna has planned her death, without blood ever staining those hands. And Britney will never see her family again, not even to say goodbye. She follows the guard dully through the corridors and stairs back to the catacombs where the gladiators are kept. She thinks about her handsome father, her brave brother, and wonders if they would do anything for her, as she promised she would for them. If only they knew of Enrique's treachery, the mockery he had made of that cursed treaty!

Britney has learnt to navigate the maze of the catacombs with ease. Her left hand brushes over the uneven surface as she counts archways cut out of stone; two, three, all the way to five. Pink is inside the room, head bent forward to catch Beyonce's voice though the other girl speaks in normal tones, but it brings their faces in close proximity, mouths only a lover's kiss apart.

Britney feels reckless, fearless, strides in without asking permission, neither in words nor the usual slump of her shoulders.  
"I want to be a part of whatever you are plotting,"she demands, the confidence in her voice almost breaking on the last word, as Pink sits up stiffly and glares, eyes narrowing.

"What gives you any right to come in here, to know anything - "

"Yes, you may."Pink throws her a furious glance, but Beyonce continues, voice husky and final. "She has the courage to ask."

Britney cannot help but feel stronger in that moment. She smiles brightly at the dark-haired girl, a habit of thanks.

"And I can bring you an army,"Britney adds, "But we will need to find some way to let my family know what has befallen me."

The other two are alert now. Britney sits down and closes the circle, welcome in their new alliance.

PINK

  
Pink grows up as a child of uncertain parentage. She knows the woman who bore her, a weary, once-beautiful maid devoted to the Emperor Julio; and she knows, mostly by sight, the man who unenthusiastically identifies as her father, the curl of his upper lip as he glances over her.

Aged seven, Pink decides that she belongs to no one but herself, if no one will take responsibility for her.  
The emperor's household is busy and bustling: haven and maze and mother. She spends her early childhood cradled in the warmth of the kitchens. When she grows a little older, she runs amok with the herd of servant children, wild in their enriched poverty. Her mother grew up much like this, and she knows it has been the same for generations of women in her own line, and all around her. They are slaves in luxury, servicing the Emperor in their attractive youth, serving the rest of his household for the rest of their years. Her life has been pre-determined, set in the lines tight around her mother's face and her worked hands, but Pink wants desperately to slip these inescapable bonds.

It is not long before she understands the kitchen-maid gossip of girls barely older than herself who hurriedly marry lowly husbands as their stomachs swell. The slave children might number higher than expected, but even the acknowledged heirs of the Emperor are as numerous. Pink learns that they take their lessons in the morning in a wing full of small bodies, both dark-eyed solemn and bright-eyed mischievous, and dark-haired like the Emperor and light-haired like so many pretty slave girls in the palace. She reads her first letters not long after that discovery, tucked inconspicuously amongst the crowd of royal children, watchful and sharp. She learns to write and to count too, but most of all she learns about privilege she has not been granted but itches to take.

It is seven months later, and a new world opened in front of her, before her presence is uncovered. She is brought before the Emperor within the hour, her mother fluttering in subservience at a distance. Maybe it is the sight of her mother triggering some long abandoned lust, or the rare stirring of an old man's heart, or Pink's childish inability to fear the Emperor; in any case, some unknown quality saves her in that moment. Amused, Julio laughs away the charges, declares her charming (a lie - she is not plain, but her features are already tending to the surly, the sly) and harmless (another lie, but one even not she knows yet). In the honey-smooth voice he's retained from youth, he allows her to continue the education she has stolen thus far. The court erupts in shocked whispers, attendants casting dark looks and hissing about an old man‘s failings...

Behind the Emperor's throne a lonely boy stares at the defiant girl standing before his father, his fellow conspirator and friend in the last few months. His eyes dart back and forth between her - the only friend the sulky prince has made in the past few months among his fellow students - and the maid on her knees in cringing gratitude, and the old man with the distracted smile on the throne.

*

Pink watches Britney run with light steps through the archway of their cell, rushing up to whisper the good news excitedly into Beyonce's ear. She leans in, palm flat on the skin of Beyonce's upper arm, and Beyonce steadies her with an answering hand on her hip.

Pink sits on her pallet and finishes putting on her armour, her daily routine. She pretends she isn't watching the other two. She slides on her shin guards, one by one. The familiar feel of cool metal warming against her skin usually steadies her, but today they are traps around her legs, symbols of her captivity once again.

Britney kneels beside her, knees in the sand, and leans in as she did with Beyonce. She cups her hands around Pink's ear and says, "The circus is in one week. Our allies have been on the move for almost a moon now. The timing could not be better - "

Her breath in warm puffs against the side of Pink's face. Pink pushes Britney away, a little roughly, and mutters, "Good news. A day when your prince will come, eh?"

Britney scrambles to her feet, her eyes narrowed. But she reaches out a hand for Pink to pull herself up from the pallet, and all three of them head straight to the practice arena. They have only a week, after all, to prepare for that final fight.

*

Pink has seen too many come and go - some too weak, others too crazed - and both kinds of fighters are doomed to die mercilessly in the arena. She runs jaded glances over each new lot of slaves cast amongst them, and can note every flaw, the careless and the fatal, in each person: slow gait, nervous disposition, soft hands, bravado.

But Beyonce intrigues Pink. There is the way she holds herself that Pink instinctively knows she could never imitate, a royal carriage. Pink would have dismissed her on first sight, apart from any lingering thoughts of lust about her lush body, were it not for the proud set of the girl's shoulders through all the hard wearying training bouts, and the grace and steadiness with which she knocks more experienced fighters aside within days.

Pink waits a few weeks before she signs on the lists against Beyonce. Three quick rounds in and the other girl is panting slightly, though her eyes are sharp even in the harsh sun of the afternoon. Pink stands feet apart and crouched forward, ready to attack from the first, her back to the light. Beyonce looks uneasy, her fingers tight around her unusual weapon, and she steps back, a terrible telltale reaction, as Pink begins to circle her opponent.

"Have you ever been in a real fight, princess?"Pink taunts, pacing to the left with a sure cross of her nimble feet. "Have you ever seen a man die?"

These are typical words, practised derision, a meaningless litany that Pink always uses at the start to break scared challengers and unnerve the ones who think they are confident enough to match her. They never are.

But on hearing them, Beyonce's face twists in pain for a moment. Pink registers this in surprise; in the next beat Beyonce lunges forwards viciously, the sharp prongs of her trident coming to rest lightly on the slant of Pink's throat. There's no time to prepare a defence, and no room for sudden movements.

"I have seen a city die,"Beyonce snarls bitterly, "I have seen more to make this just a silly game."

Pink listens, and for all that she has come to accept the arena and its empty victories as her life, she believes the other girl, she understands it as truth. And Beyonce may hold that she is not royalty but in her eyes and her careful words, Pink senses riches in her past; gold pressed to skin, jewels artfully arranged in the hollows of smooth bodies, precious gems crystalline and bloody.

Pink sees all these things before her, and she wants to touch the girl of these images. Looking at the burnished skin, she can imagine scooping a handful of that treasure from its surface with trembling fingers. She can imagine the solid ground on which Beyonce stalks towards revenge.

*

Pink lies upon her pallet, sleepless. There are many nights she wakes, sobs of frustration muffled into the hard sack under her head. But more are the nights she sleeps not a wink, staring into nothing, imagining her life in the palace if she had not refused the Emperor.

If she hadn't fought and won one small battle, to be condemned to a lifetime of fighting.

"You are not tired from all today's exertions?"Britney asks, lying on the pallet beside Pink.

Pink starts at the sound of her voice, having assumed the other girl was fast asleep. But Britney's eyes are wide open, watching her as they lie face to face.

"Tomorrow we will have to work even harder than today,"Pink says instead. "We will have to be stronger, faster, than ever before."

"I was brought up to believe my father was strong, my brother and all his men were strong. That I would have no need for it on my own, because they would always be the ones to fight my battles for me,"Britney mused. "But I know now that is not enough. You have taught me that I have strength of my own."

"Just because you know how to wield a sword, doesn't make you a fighter,"Pink says.

Britney reaches out a hand, and touches her gently on the shoulder.

"You are right. But staying our ground makes us fighters,"she says, "Keeping hope in this place means we prevail over their punishments. We are stronger than them."

"Then I am the strongest of all,"Pink says bitterly, "Because I have held out over all these long years. What good has it done me?"

Her face tightens in a frown as she remembers, "All the slaves that I've bested, every dying face, every killing stroke. And then I see his face in my mind, and I cannot sleep, when he is still alive, growing fat and comfortable on his throne."

Britney sits up suddenly, folding her legs gracefully beneath her. "May I?"she asks, even as she draws Pink to lie with her head upon her lap. She cards her fingers through Pink's hair, and in a low voice, begins to sing.

Her voice is airy and thin, but the tune is so haunting and lovely that Pink cannot think upon anything else. She does not understand the words, if they are words at all. But she knows it is a song that knows that the night is dark and full of fears, even as it sings to bring peace.

When the song is over, Britney says quietly, "It was a lullaby my mother sang me when I was a little girl. I thought, maybe, that it would help."When Pink does not respond at all, Britney says, "I am sorry. I will trouble you no more tonight."

Pink shifts, then, wraps her hand around Britney's wrist, and says, "Sing it for me again."

Britney sings it once more. Across the cell, she can see Beyonce, watching and listening from the gloom, a sad smile on her face. She is singing for all of them.

At the song's end, Britney looks down and sees that Pink is still awake.

"It did not work,"she says, disappointment in her voice. "I would always fall asleep while my mother sang to me."

"One song is not going to take away all that keeps me awake,"Pink says dryly.

But even as Britney shrinks back against the wall, Pink adds, more kindly "But teach me that song, Princess, for it is a good song. And I will teach you one in return, for I learnt a few during my years in the palace. And maybe our friend knows a few more that we do not."

At this, Pink glanced across at Beyonce with a smile of her own.

"And perhaps in this way, our sleepless nights will pass by more easily, as we count the days until we are avenged."

*

They are dressed, oiled, armed as if this will be any other battle, just another circus paid for by their generous, celebration-loving Emperor. The three of them know that it is more: the culmination of all their plans, of all their hope.

Pink stands alone before the wrought gates, fingers loose on the hilt on the sword she has chosen. Solid and wide in her palm, and she remembers another blade in her hand once upon a time - then, it had caused no more damage than a nick in the slope of his shoulders, and a trickle of blood running down one arm.

She can remember so much about that night. The same scenes running through her mind as she polished her hatred every time she waited for the call, the gates to open and spit her into the ring; then later, the same images haunting her sleep.

How would she have known all the trouble her actions would bring? The kitchens were always quiet and warm in the early hours of morning, and all through her teens Pink had thought nothing of doubling back to pick from the scraps of dinner untouched, or food ready to be served in the morning. It had been bread she was nibbling on when he swung out of the shadows and surprised her. How would she have known - it was not the place to find a princeling on the cusp of true reign, not a place to imagine being cornered by a dark-haired dark-eyed boy she had not seen face to face since her years of servitude began.

His hands had gathered her wrists in a hold she could not escape, slamming her body against the wall with violent and ugly intent. Stone walls rough but warm on her skin, his breath hot on the exposed back, a hand on her breasts and another groping under her worn skirt. Tears wetting her neck as he forced himself in her, and she had been surprised by them, but the pity washed away in the flood of anger and disgust and fright. Above them, the chambers were still full of courtiers in mourning for Julio. And as night slipped away, his neglected son, his unexpected heir, farewelled his father with grunts and a sudden, harsh cry. Enrique had stumbled away from her then, a hand at his arms smearing the blood, a snarl on his face. The little paring knife had been ridiculously small but she'd remembered satisfaction in its use, a smirk on her face on the moment as he backed away and ran in alarm.

She'd wake with the guards pulling her from the pallet and throwing her to be punished before the court and their jeers, but in that last deep sleep she'd been free.

Pink stands before the gates slowly opening, the yawning stretch of sand and crowds before her, and she walks out with her head high, her face unconsciously in a remembered smirk. She only glances out of the corner of her eyes, but she can see them, two other girls who understand this day of vengeance, and she is unafraid as she lifts her sword to fight.

ENRIQUE

Enrique was twenty when the messenger came, riding a horse flogged half to death and looking little better himself.

He stumbled off his nag and knelt at Enrique's feet, wordlessly offering the hilt of a sword. It was no show-piece but a weapon well-worn, the edge nicked in places and the grip familiar in Enrique's hand. His brother's sword.

"Then Jos is dead," he said aloud, and at the messenger's weary nod, it seemed suddenly the sword was light as a feather or a ray of light.

Enrique was living at that time far from the empire's capital. He was, after all, only the second son and destined not to shine in Rome. His lot was to be minor commands in long-conquered cities where there was little to fill the days but hunting and wenching and wine. To his entourage of provincials, toadies, and fellow exiles Enrique had long declared himself content. Oh yes, he would say, he was so glad to be far from the pomp and ceremony, so relieved to be free of such weighty responsibilities. Some had even believed him.

Now after years on years of this indolence, Jos was dead and all Enrique had ever wanted had tumbled into the palm of his hand. He smiled.

Enrique hefted the sword once more, admiring its glint in the light, and then shouted for horses. He'd return to Rome at once.

*

The Emperor had been ill for many years but the death of his heir seemed the final blow and Enrique returned to a city thrumming with expectant mourning.

 _The Emperor is dying, the Emperor is dying._ So often did he hear the whisper that when Enrique wound his way up and up the cold marble stairs to his father's chamber he was almost surprised to find the old man still breathing.

The Emperor Julio on his divan was a shadow of the man Enrique remembered. "Stay," his father rasped, "my son. Time grows short and you have much to learn about-" He broke off coughing and the servants rushed to wet his lips with grape juice and distilled teas.

Enrique kissed the Emperor's cold hand but did not stop to listen, remembering other days when Jos and father held deep talks behind closed doors, remembering being sixteen and given his first command only for his brother to relieve him of it a mere two weeks later, remembering his father sending him away.

So he ignored the old man's wheezes and instead went out, into the waiting city.

After the long exile in the borderlands he fell in love again with the sight of Rome, the smells and sounds, the bustling crowds, the sweet wine and the sweeter girls. He loved Rome and was loved in return as the city's own son, come home at last, and the air of expectancy surrounding the old man's death assumed a faint air of anticipation.

Even before his father's heart stilled, Enrique was full of _what he would do_. He was eager to speak to all who would listen on how he would conquer nations and lead Rome to glory. When Julio died one grey morning, some short weeks after Enrique's return, he accepted the news calmly and as only his rightful due.

Enrique did not care and proved it to himself on his father's funeral day. After the long procession and the longer hours of feasting were over, after he had at last shaken off his dozens of new friends, his hundreds of loyal subjects, he was alone at last.

His head was heavy with wine and false sentiment - the night had been long and the morning was already beckoning when he came across the slave girl with the sun-bleached hair.

His eyes were caught by her insolent stare and full lips, the sway of her hips as she walked across the room. Her face seemed familiar and he wondered for a moment if he'd known her in his youth. But the thought passed and was discarded, and it was only later that he recognised her name.

Enrique had not known until that moment that he wanted her, but in knowing it was simple then to push her up against the wall, for he was Emperor now and to take his pick of the household was only his rightful due.

It should have been easy.

Except that _this_ one struck back. The sting of her knife in his flesh was nothing to the contempt in her eyes as she shoved him away.

She thought she'd won - but he was Emperor now, and none could strike him. As one of his first commands he ordered the slave girl sent to the ring.

*

Ruling was a simple thing.

The people of Rome mourned Julio but loved Enrique better. The city hummed with ceaseless activity: every second day seemed a feast day, each arena game was succeeded by another and another and another. Full fed and amply entertained, the citizens were well pleased with their young emperor.

Only his senators were unhappy. Oh, they cried, the treasury was empty, Rome's borders were vulnerable, the slaves grew restless! The truth was they were jealous, he thought, of his easy aptitude for rule.

By way of retort Enrique ordered his army to the hinterlands - time after time they returned triumphant, bearing coffers of treasure, leading chains of slaves destined for the sport of the arena. The people loved him for it and not even the senators had much to say to that.

Otherwise Enrique gave little heed to what lay beyond the city walls. He had seen the world and it was a desert, with Rome as its sole and shining centre.

In only one matter he did concede to the politicians and that was his choice of a wife.

The northern barbarians had dogged his borders for years on years, but lately they had grown tired of bloodshed and at long last sued for peace. Now they offered not only an end to the war but also cold steel and hard-won gold in return for Rome's protection. A final bargaining chip: the king's daughter. She'd be his to bed and marry, to bear his heirs, to keep close as surety that her father honoured his word.

On her arrival, Enrique was pleased to see that the princess his senators had bought was pretty in the northern fashion, and she seemed docile enough. All in all, Enrique would have been well satisfied, except that she would not meet his eyes. For all his gracious welcomes, Britney would not speak a word, dividing her blank gaze between the glazed surface of her plate and the far wall of the dining hall.

She acted like a prisoner, Enrique thought furiously, as though the gold chain he wrapped around her slender neck were a shackle. His pride was stung.

Yet the young woman she had brought in her small party was not so reticent in accepting his flattery: so the smiles he intended for Britney that evening were given to her blonde cousin instead.

Later that night, this fair cousin slipped silver into his guard's palm and stole into his chambers. She made her way to the bed where Enrique watched with darkened eyes as she untied her cloak, fingers trembling. More tempting women had offered themselves to him before and compared to those she was only a young and nervous girl. But she was lovely and she was here, and she came to him freely. So he pulled her down beside him, with no more regret than that.

She rose from the bed later that night while Enrique lay sated and sleepy, her white hands deftly straightening and tying her robes as she hurried to be back to her own quarters before dawn. Enrique caught her wrist as she turned to leave and asked with an air of uncaring: "Your name?"

His bride's cousin flushed all over, white skin blooming. "Anna."

"Anna." He smiled and lay back on his pillows. "You may go."

*

As the wedding approached Britney grew no warmer. She would walk with him, and talk with him, but it was clear she took no pleasure in their polite discourse.

Enrique grew to hate her downcast eyes, her folded hands, her unwavering indifference. He could have had any woman in the empire, any woman at all, and still this barbarian's daughter thought herself too high for his touch? The thought made him snarl.

Meanwhile Anna was as warm and welcoming as Britney was not. She came to his bed every night and opened her legs and gasped sweet words of gratitude into his ear. She, at least, was always properly aware of the privilege he bestowed upon her. All of these things he found pleasing.

So he sent Britney properly dull courting gifts, and gave to Anna extravagances: a pink diamond, a leopard skin, and blooms of hothouse flowers. Let the senators whisper, he thought recklessly, and cursed the day they'd persuaded him into this thankless bargain.

Weeks passed and Anna came to his chambers almost every evening. Yet Enrique was still surprised on the night she knelt, quiet and graceful by his chair, and in a low voice confided she was bearing his child.

"And you're certain?" he said harshly.

She nodded, one hand resting on his knee, her eyes wide and questioning.

"Very well," he said abruptly and in that moment made up his mind. "Oh, get up." He stood and pulled her up with him. At the coldness of his tone tears started to her eyes, rolled down her pale cheeks. "Stop," he said impatiently, cupping her face in his hands.

"But what will happen to me?" A sob caught in her throat. "I'm not. I can't-"

"Stop, Anna," he said impatiently, and wiped the tears from her face with his sleeve. "I'll marry you. Do you hear? I'll marry you."

Anna's surprise did not last long. Perhaps she believed he loved her.

Enrique was quite certain that love had nothing to do with the matter, but he did believe Anna would suit better than her cold cousin. He valued more than Anna's pliancy between the sheets and her soft, ripe mouth. He admired her ambition, which complemented his own, and her intelligence, which his own exceeded. He approved of her voice, lightly accented and never disagreeing, and her perfect manners.

He liked too the hint of greediness in her eyes as she admired the bracelets he clasped around her slender wrists, for it meant her loyalty could be bought for the right price. Yes, she would suit him very well indeed.

As for Britney - he was Emperor and his word was law. Princess though she was, Britney was sent to the pits and branded a traitor.

But while she lived, Britney was never far from Anna's mind.

"I hate her," Anna said softly, lying in the dark beside him in the bed they now openly shared. "I can't stand the thought of her. She'll try to hurt me. She'll try to hurt you. What if," she said, her voice dropping lower, "she had an accident...?"

"Don't fret." Enrique smiled in the darkness at her shallow cunning, but agreed with the intent. "Your cousin's days are numbered. We'll make her sport for the lions."

*

The arena was full that day, packed with his Romans, all eager for bloodshed.

He'd ordered the three traitors to be put to the lions together. First there was Britney, of course, Anna's rival put to the death at last. Secondly Pink, the insolent slut whose scar he still carried. Finally Beyonce, the slave he'd been told was a known ringleader.

He and Anna took their seats in the arena, their goblets brimming with wine and their spirits high as the lions were released. Oh, how Anna laughed to see three girls inch closer together, standing back to back in desperate retreat as their deaths came circling ever closer on velvet and deadly paws.

"It's the most perfect wedding gift," Anna whispered into his ear, and he smiled as he leant to accept her kiss.

And then it all went wrong.

Fierce as leopards, strong as soldiers - the girls' retreat was no retreat at all, but a strategic positioning, a plan played to perfection. They _slaughtered_ the lions while the crowd cheered and cheered. It was not, Enrique thought as he clutched the stem of his goblet and struggled for calm, the spectacle he had expected.

The arena shone all crimson and gold. The blood of the lions streaked down their slender arms and triumphant faces, all three bathed in the crowd's adoration. They turned to his box, weapons raised high in mock tribute, and the shouts of the crowd grew louder still.

For long moments he sat frozen. Then slowly the chant of the crowd became words, and finally he understood what they wanted him to do. What they _demanded_ that he do, according to the rules of the arena.

"I must go down," Enrique said, rising to his feet. "I must go down to the ring. I must," and he nearly choked on the words, "I must give them their freedom."

"No," Anna said, her nails digging into his arm. "No, Enrique, you can't-"

"I'll take care of it," he said roughly, and pulled away from her hands and her presumption before descending, step by heavy step, to the arena floor.

Before they raised the portcullis, Enrique took aside the captain of his guard and said, "Keep your men here at the gate with swords at the ready. When they come through..." He trailed off with a significant look. The captain nodded.

It was bright in the arena, the gravel crunching beneath his sandals as he stepped out to face them. On sighting his crimson cloak and crown of laurels, the roar of the crowd became deafening.

"Warriors," Enrique began to say, "warriors, you have proven yourselves..."

But the three gladiators, rather than saluting, spat at his feet instead. He saw in their eyes loathing, scorn, contempt, hatred. His voice died away in his mouth.

Pink cocked her head. "Long time, lover. A long, long time."

"This is our day," Beyonce said, stepping forward, her dark eyes bold and levelled at his own. "We've won, Emperor, and you have lost. This is only the beginning."

Coldly furious at their impudence, Enrique forced himself to bark a laugh.

"Oh?" he sneered. "Won what, exactly? You may have slain my lions but make no mistake: you are _finished_. You've only delayed the moment of your defeat. Do you truly believe you'll live out the day?"

"But listen, Emperor. Can you hear it?" Britney said quietly. She took a step closer, then another, her eyes very wide. "Can you hear it now?"

 _You're mad_ , he started to say, but then he did listen, and there it was.

The sound was faint at first, barely audible above the cries and calls of the crowd, but there it was and growing louder all the time: the steady thunder of thousands of feet, the clank of armour and sharpened swords, the blast of trumpets. Yes, he did hear it, and so did his people - distantly he was aware that the crowd's cheers had begun to turn to confused mutters.

"Your slaves, Emperor, your forgotten people," Beyonce said, circling him slowly. "They have taken care of your soldiers. They are burning down your city. They are opening the city gates and letting in your enemies even at this very moment."

"My father has come for me today, dear Enrique," Britney said, smiling slightly. "You broke our treaty. And now you must pay."

"You're lying," Enrique said harshly, but he looked upwards and saw like banners the first long tendrils of a black and streaming smoke, smelt on the air the scent of some great burning. "No, it's not possible- but my armies-"

"Your armies are fighting distant wars," Beyonce said. "And we'll make sure there will be no Rome for them to return to. Your empire has been ready to fall for a long, long time, Emperor."

"Emperor of nothing," Pink said, her pretty mouth pulled in a snarl, in a smile. "Emperor of dirt."

Above and around them the crowd was beginning to stream out of the arena, shoving one another in haste and their voices raised in the beginnings of panic. Outside, from beyond the arena walls, there came the sound of screams. He looked around wildly for his guards but saw only slumped corpses.

"There is no one to save you, Emperor. We could kill you even now. But instead - we will be merciful," Beyonce said, even as she lowered her trident in a killing stance. "We will give you one last chance."

"Last chance?" Enrique said, his throat dry as dust, his mouth completely parched. At first he didn't understand.

"The same chance you gave us," Pink purred, club swinging easily in her hand. "Ready to fight for your freedom?"

Lastly, languidly, Britney lifted her sword. She smiled coldly. The sun glinted from the blade, her teeth. "Come on, Enrique," she said. "Draw your sword."

The grip of his brother's sword should have been familiar in Enrique's hand, yet it felt strange to him at that moment - light as the rule of an empire, heavy as a sure and certain death.

"Yes," Enrique said at last, raising the blade before him. "I'm ready."

  
[end]


End file.
